And the Sea Is Never Full: Memoirs 1969

by Elie Wiesel

  After describing the goals and the functioning of the Council, I go on:

  … What we all have in common is an obsession: not to betray the dead we left behind or who left us behind. They were killed once; they must not be killed again…. You were the first free men to discover the abyss, just as we were its last inhabitants. What we symbolized to one another then was so special that it remained part of our very being….

  … It would have been so easy for us to slide into melancholy and resignation. We made a different choice. We chose to become spokesmen for man’s quest for generosity and his need and capacity to turn his or her suffering into something productive, something creative.

  We had hoped then that out of so much torment and grief and mourning, a new message would be handed down to future generations—a warning against the dangers inherent in discrimination in all its forms, fanaticism, poverty, deprivation, ignorance, oppression, humiliation, injustice, and war—the ultimate injustice, the ultimate humiliation. Yes, friends; we were naive. And perhaps we still are….

  … If we do not raise our voice against war—who will? We speak with the authority of men and women who have seen war; we know what it is. We have seen the burnt villages, the devastated cities, the deserted homes; we still see the demented mothers whose children are being massacred before their eyes, we still follow the endless nocturnal processions to the flames rising up to the seventh heaven—if not higher….

  We are gathered here to testify—together. Our tale is a tale of solitude and fear and anonymous death—but also of compassion, generosity, bravery, and solidarity. Together, you the liberators and we the survivors, represent a commitment to memory whose intensity will remain. In its name we shall continue to voice our concerns and our hopes, not for our own sake, but for the sake of humankind. Its very survival may depend on its ability and willingness to listen.

  And to remember.

  I have reproduced certain excerpts from this speech because I feel strongly about the circumstances that motivated it. I shall never forget the tears of the American soldier who, in what was called “the little camp,” discovered the result of absolute evil. My gratitude to him and all the other liberators of the camps remains deep and eternal. When I draw up the balance sheet of my life, the memory that binds me to them is paramount.

  Yet even they pose a problem. There is one question, always the same, I ask American or Soviet officers: Did they ever modify a plan, or decide to launch an attack a day or an hour earlier, in order to liberate a concentration camp? The answer is always the same: no. Military operations were decided by headquarters; no one else could change orders.

  How can one forget the liberators’ kindness, their warmth, the bewilderment, the horror reflected in their eyes, their sadness? Since our Washington conference, their acts of kindness have been commemorated in many communities—they have been congratulated; they have been urged to testify, to speak, to write; they have been the subjects of newspaper accounts, films. They have been honored and involved in the survivors’ effort to safeguard memory. I am proud to have been the one to initiate the process.

  There is another international conference I like to recall: “The Courage to Care.” The idea had been Dr. Carol Rittner’s. This nun, who belongs to the order of the Sisters of Mercy, is one of the most dynamic women I have met. After Monroe Freedman’s departure, for political reasons—he was not from the “right” party—I proposed that she take over the direction of the Memorial Council. She agreed, but the White House refused. Because she was not a Republican? Nonetheless, we collaborated for many years, and she became the first director of the foundation I created with Marion after I received the Nobel Prize.

  Her obsession is the Holocaust. It is the major topic of the courses she teaches in the university run by her order. Harsh in her judgment of the Catholic Church’s attitude during the war, she has great admiration and affection for those Yad Vashem calls “the righteous among the nations,” the non-Jews who risked their lives to save Jews. “Why not have the Council organize an important colloquium in their honor?” she asked one day. I liked the proposal, for not enough has been said about these men and women whose spirit of sacrifice saved mankind’s honor.

  Seventy-five guests, Jews and Christians, from diverse backgrounds arrive to take part in this gathering. Like the Liberators’ Conference, it takes place at the State Department. This time it is Secretary George Shultz who participates in the opening ceremony. We witness the reunions of several “saviors” and those they saved. People are embracing, and there is much weeping in the corridors.

  Gaby Cohen—we called her Niny long ago, in the Ambloy children’s home—has come to speak to us of the Jewish children hidden in France, and those who were helped to cross clandestinely into Switzerland. Madame Trocmé retells the glorious saga of her French village, Le Chambon, whose inhabitants risked their lives to save Jews. The widow of Pastor Martin Niemöller recalls the courageous deeds of her husband. His words about the dangers of indifference are famous:

  When they came to look for the Catholics, I said nothing, since I am not a Catholic. Then they came to look for the trade-unionists; I said nothing since I am not a trade-unionist; then they came for the Jews, and not being a Jew, I said nothing. In the end, when they came to take me away, there was no one left to raise his voice.

  Poles, Dutchmen, Belgians, Danes, Frenchmen, men and women of great courage, how could one not be moved in their presence?

  And how could I forget the person who, on the eve of the first transport, had tapped on the window of our house, no doubt to warn us? I never succeeded in learning his identity: I would have so wished to invite him or her to this conference.

  In my town, and throughout occupied Europe, such brave people were a tiny minority. Why were they so few, these just men and women who took the side of the victim?

  I question them in every language I know. For me they are a unique species. They dared resist the oppressor, interfere with his misdeeds. They proved that it was possible to wrest the frightened prey from the killer, to encroach into the Kingdom of Death. Two questions are on my lips: What made you choose danger and heroism over resignation and waiting? And why were you so few? It is impossible to elicit any reasonable answers from them. Heroes, they? Why are we pestering them with these questions about heroism when they have done nothing extraordinary, nothing any other human being would not have done?

  This reminds me of the marvelous story of a woman from Berlin whom Yad Vashem had honored for having risked her own life to save Jews. Turning to the journalists who were nagging her with questions about her motives, she said simply: “You want to know why I did it? Well, I’ll tell you: out of self-respect.”

  Had I been there, I would have kissed her.

  I confess: Of all the activities of the Memorial Council, except for the annual Days of Remembrance, the part I relish most is these personal meetings, discussions, conferences, the exchanges of ideas and recollections. The role of “soul matchmaker” suits me. I find it exciting to watch men and women of every background gathered around a table exchanging ideas, learning from one another just what it is that makes each of us unique. And sharing one goal: to make people understand why and how they must live together on this bedeviled planet. Dialogue: philosophical debates, religious discussions—if the Council had served only that purpose, dayyenu—it would have been enough.

  On the other hand, some projects I’ve been involved in turned out badly. Among them, the 1982 colloquium on genocide and the journey to Bosnia. As for the American-German Commission, regretfully, it was short-lived. The Council had put together a sort of study committee that brought together American and German intellectuals. I had been assured that all of the Germans had impeccable pasts. Two annual meetings had been scheduled, one in New York and one in Berlin. The first took on a confessional tone; we had former deportees on one side and five German academicians and politicians on the other. True and painful words were spoken by Klaus Sc
hutz, ex-mayor of Berlin and German ambassador to Israel, and Peter Petersen, a member of the Bonn parliament who admitted that he was once a member of the Hitler Youth. A philosopher spoke of his concern for truth. The atmosphere was one of confidence, sympathy.

  As I arrive in Berlin with my delegation for the second session, I am keenly aware of the date: January 20. I mention this to our official hosts. They seem not to understand: “Oh that’s fine …,” they say. I repeat: “Today is January 20th, isn’t that symbolic?” Again, they nod: That’s fine. Does the date mean nothing to them? What about the Wannsee Conference? Don’t they know about the conference that took place not far from here on January 20, 1942? Oh yes, finally the Germans understand, make the connection. Can we see the site that holds such a notorious place in contemporary history? Impossible, they reply. Too complicated. The program is too full. Too many people to see, too many official meetings. And there is so little time.

  Never mind; we go anyway. Is there a plaque at the entrance? I seem to remember that it makes no reference to the past. Long ago, before it was confiscated by the Gestapo, the villa had belonged to a Jewish family. It was here that, chaired by Reinhard Heydrich himself, and with the active collaboration of Adolf Eichmann, the infamous meeting of the high officials representing all the ministries of the Reich took place. Its purpose? To set down the principle and devise the strategy for the “Final Solution.”

  I walk around the villa. I interrogate the walls, the ceilings: Let them testify, since the people remain mute. I mention our visit to Wannsee in my public speeches. The embarrassed officials promise to transform the villa into a museum of remembrance. I am told that they have kept their word.

  Meanwhile, back in Washington, things are progressing slowly, much too slowly. There is no end to the intrigues and quarrels: overt and covert conflicts and clashes between personalities and ambitions, thirst for the pitiful power that supposedly is ours to give. Early on, to make everyone happy, I had authorized—on a provisional basis—the creation of some twenty committees. They are now a mess. While the plenary sessions continue to provoke worthwhile debates and analyses, petty skirmishes abound in the corridors. Nothing is forgiven. More and more often I find myself in the role of mediator, and I spend hours on the phone soothing angry factions. I am beginning to feel I am wasting my time.

  And the problem of specificity versus universality in the Council is getting worse. It surfaces at every session. The theologian Robert McAfee Brown and other Christian philosophers understand the sensitivity of the issue. Others do not. And, of course, one must not expect unanimity from the Jews. To demonstrate to the Council his predilection for universality, a Warsaw survivor tells us one day that while he does not observe his mother’s yahrzeit, he does light a candle on the anniversary of the death of the Christian woman who hid him during the Occupation.

  Every day the problem of finances becomes more acute. Session after session is devoted to it. Should we accept German contributions if Bonn offers them? The majority is against. Should we hire professional fund-raisers? Marion warns me against it. But the majority decides: yes. Everyone has a different opinion. This is not my area of competence. Let others handle that—Miles Lerman, for instance. He has been helping Israel Bonds for years. And of course there is Sigmund Strochlitz, who has successfully raised funds for Haifa University. As it happens, the two are friends. Together they call on wealthy and less wealthy potential donors. I accompany them when they go to see Henry Ford III and to a dinner with the governor of Texas. Optimistic expectations and rude disappointments follow one another. But what about the Jewish survivors? They should be among the first to contribute. Many, including some in New Jersey, could easily help. We organize a working lunch for them. Fifteen people attend. As a group they pledge $600,000, spread over several years. But we need tens of millions of dollars for architects, builders, engineers, librarians, all kinds of specialists. They all cost money that we don’t have.

  Council Vice Chairman Mark Talisman and Hyman Bookbinder have succeeded in persuading Congress to assign to us a building that is close to the Mall, not far from the Lincoln Memorial, a most prestigious site. The site has a redbrick building, which seems appropriate because of its simplicity and the way it fits perfectly into the surrounding area. The interior will have to be redone, and it will require other repairs. Never mind; we’ll surely manage to raise the needed funds.

  One night Miles and Sigmund wake me up at three in the morning; they are jubilant. They have good news that couldn’t wait. Miles has found the rara avis—a generous multimillionaire who is ready to finance everything. Everything? Absolutely. He knows what to do. All he wants is for us to trust him. In exchange he will deliver a building worthy of our hopes. Now that I am awake, Miles and Sigmund tell me I can sleep peacefully. But … it’s important that I meet him.

  The next day I do meet him, as I have met other would-be saviors of the museum. They all love to talk, to listen to their own voices. The alleged savior has a wish: to make a speech in the course of a planned Evening of Remembrance at the Kennedy Center. And if not? Better not to upset him, say Miles and Sigmund. Well, all right, since the fate of the museum depends on it, let him say a few words. In the end, while he delivered a long-winded speech, our expectations that he might be our savior came to naught.

  It doesn’t take long before Miles and Sigmund proudly announce their discovery of a new patron to replace the doctor/tycoon: Sonny Abramson, a well-known Washington entrepreneur. He is the image of success—silvery hair, eyes of steel. He wishes to help us. According to Miles and Sigmund, I “must” lunch with him. If things go well, our worries are over.

  Sonny makes rather a good impression. His common sense is evident. Even though he is not a member of the Council, he offers us his total support. He speaks like the other, only his voice is deeper. Like the other one, he says that he wants nothing, he simply has faith in us and in our mission. If we just tell him what to do, he’ll take care of everything having to do with the renovation. We are told that he has connections in high places and can put them to work. His best friend is an influential member of Congress.

  An alliance is forged, and at first it’s a honeymoon. God is great and the work goes forward. Everybody is happy. Miles, Sigmund, Sonny—the perfect trio. Miles attends to fundraising, Sigmund watches over programming, Sonny deals with the technical research and preparatory work for the building. Finally, we have peace. Rather than six, I spend only two hours a day on the telephone, settling problems that are really outside my sphere of competence.

  One day, in the usual manner—Sonny tells Miles, who alerts Sigmund, who rings me—I receive a shattering piece of news: The building is worthless; it is so rotten inside that it is in danger of collapse. Repairs would cost a fortune; better to demolish it and start thinking in terms of a new building.

  I see it as a tragedy. I liked this simple brick building. In fact, we all liked it. It is interesting to read what my colleagues on the Council said about it in plenary session. Some thought it reminded them of the blocks at Auschwitz. Others praised its simplicity: What could be more ordinary than red brick? They thought it efficient. Harmonious. A group of specialists devise a detailed plan, a “Red Book” for the museum. The plan is impressive in its precision, its details, and its creative imagination. Everything is ready; construction could begin. But now, if Sonny is right, we’ll have to start from scratch. We discuss the matter with him and his congressman friend. We talk with numerous building contractors and architects. I feel sad about abandoning the building. If we could have used it, the museum could have been ready soon, in two years at the most. And it would have been financially manageable. But Sonny is stubborn; he insists on the need to demolish it. After all, he is the expert. Finally the ritual resumes: Sonny puts pressure on Miles, who persuades Sigmund, who succeeds in convincing me. The building will be demolished. The page is turned.

  From that moment on, Sonny’s position becomes ever more important. He seems
irreplaceable when it comes to the construction of a new building. He introduces us to one of his friends, Harvey “Bud” Meyerhoff, a wealthy businessman from Baltimore. The two form a pair just as Miles and Sigmund do, though the chemistry between them is not always good. We run into problems of authority: Who has the power to decide? Theoretically it is Sigmund, since he is chair of the development committee. Sonny objects, arguing that he lives in Washington, Sigmund does not, and there are decisions to be made every day, decisions that cannot wait, certainly not for the next meeting. We swim in discussions, debates, countless crises. I establish new infrastructures, new committees and subcommittees. Our emissaries travel around the country in search of donors, museum specialists, educators, and archivists. We go from meeting to meeting, from ceremony to ceremony. They all begin to seem alike. And time passes.

  To my friends I confide my ever more serious doubts. Should I resign? Had I made a mistake when I opposed President Carter, who wanted only a monument?

  Sonny is charged with finding the best possible architect to prepare a design. He falls back on architects working for him. For my part, I invite an Israeli architect, Zalman Einav, to submit plans.

  It is now 1985. The year of the Bitburg affair.

  The Bitburg Affair

  IT ALL BEGINS with an innocent enough statement by a White House spokesman at the beginning of 1985. President Reagan will be traveling to West Germany. There is specific reference to the fact that the official program does not include visits to former concentration camps. At once, voices are heard: Some wonder; others are indignant. Had the spokesman not mentioned this detail, it never would have occurred to the reporters to turn it into an issue. But now they view it as a challenge, as though Ronald Reagan wanted to show the country and the world his new attitude toward Helmut Kohl’s Germany. It was to be a “normal” attitude based on relations between two peoples that were now allies and friends. The past was buried. Or, as Chancellor Kohl would say, normalized.